Nomenclature
by DragonsDeadAndDancing
Summary: After a long day of fighting, Hawke and her companions share a drink in the Hanged Man. And then they start talking about names.


_"A named thing is a tamed thing." - A not-so-quiet evening in the Hanged Man with friends._

"Norah! Another round!"

The serving maid waved her hand to signal she'd heard the call and continued her meandering way through the crowded inn.

Aveline sighed. "Thank you, Varric. I need it."

The dwarf snorted. "Don't thank me. We're drinking on Hawke's tab tonight. With that bounty she's collected today she can certainly afford it."

Isabela raised a dark eyebrow. "What did you do this time? Rescue a kitten?"

Half-hearted laughter and a muttered protest from Anders drowned in the background noise of drunken patrons.

"Tal-Vashoth," said Hawke curtly without taking her eyes from her untouched drink.

After five years at her side, the others knew better than to comment on their leader's sudden mood swings. "They were hiding in the northern part of the Wounded Coast," said Varric. "You know, 'bela, the route we took when Aveline and Donnic-"

Norah's arrival with their drinks cut the dwarf's sentence off and spared him from most of Aveline's dark frowns.

Merrill took a small sip of her cider - the weakest beverage available in the Hanged Man, and even that only at Varric's insistance. "I wish it had been kittens," said the elf. "I think I would have done better."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Daisy." Varric patted the Dalish's small shoulder. "Everyone of us has been knocked out in a fight a few times already. That's what you've got me for - to watch your back."

The elf grimaced slightly. "That is easy to say for you, Varric. I've got so many bruises, they all have names and families, and bruises of their own. You just hit Tan."

Fenris, who had stayed quiet all evening, laughed at that but without mirth. The loathing tone he used just only when he was talking to Merrill crept into his voice. "You should stay more alert, blood mage. One day, a wolf might creep up to you and get you while you're distracted by a pretty flower."

Varric let out a "Fenris!" while Isabela simply slapped the ex-slave on the back of his head, hard enough to darken his scowl further. Merrill looked confused. "Did I miss something? I think I can defend myself against wolves."

"He's speaking of himself, Merrill," explained Aveline. "His name means 'little wolf' in the elven language."

"Oh." The Dalish immediately forgot the thinly veiled threat. "I didn't know that. Fenris, you should have told me that earlier! Everything you know about our culture is important. Fen-ris...yes, I see it now."

"Does your name mean anything, Merrill?" asked Isabela quickly to steer the conversation to a safer topic.

The little elf took another, slightly larger sip before answering. "If there is one, I don't know it, sadly. Maybe my parents named me after a relative or a friend, but I haven't seen them in decades."

"And you, Ser Aveline?"

The guard captain shot the Rivani pirate a resentful look. "Very funny, Isabela. Tell us about your name. Go on."

The other woman shot her a dazzling smile. "It's a nickname. 'Little beauty'." She took a swig of her brandy before she continued: "The captain of my first ship always called me that and it...it just stuck."

A sound that seemed part grunt, part snort and part poorly supressed laughter came from Anders. Isabela nodded at him. "Your turn."

"Well, the name 'Justice' obviously comes from the nature of the spirit," said the apostate.

"Don't dodge that question, Blondie," shot Varric back.

"Alright, alright." Anders sighed. "'Anders' mean 'different' in some language I can't even remember the name of. Fine?"

"Why are you so upset, Anders?" asked Merrill.

"I don't know. I know I'm different from other people, but it's still unpleasant when I'm reminded of it every time someone says my name."

Fenris raised his head at that. "Look at us. You're an abomination, drinking with an ex-slave, two blood-mages, a shipless pirate, a beardless dwarf, and a Fereldan who is captain of the guard in Kirkwall. We spend our days slaying anything that moves and our nights drinking in this very tavern. I don't know what it means to be normal, but I'm quite sure none of us is."

Anders smiled, the moment of sadness gone. "Fenris, did you just try to comfort me?"

The elf shrugged. "I blame the drink. Norah! Another Antivan, on the rocks."

"And you, Varric?" asked Isabela. "Is there a story behind that name of yours?"

The dwarf grinned. "There is, but I doubt you'll want to hear it. Bartrand used to preach it to me every time I disgraced the family name. Appearently some Varric aided in House Tethras' rise by saving the king's life before he lost his own choking on Darkspawn blood."

Anders winced symathetically. "Even that poor stuff they serve in the Hanged Man tastes better." To prove his words, he emptied his tankard and added: "Not much, though."

"Hawke," said Aveline.

"What is it?" answered the mage, still lost in thought.

"What about your name?"

"Come to think of," interjected Varric, "what is your first name? I don't think I've ever heard it and I need it for your biography."

Hawke's blue eyes met the dwarf's with a look as hard and cold as solid ice. "Don't tease me, Varric," she warned.

"Don't be a spoilsport, Hawke," said Isabela. "We know you hate all this sentimental talk, but try and have some fun. Maybe you'll like it."

The mage exhaled sharply through her nose. "Marian."

"Marian Hawke? Is that your name?" asked Merrill.

"I said that, didn't I? Go ahead, make fun of it."

Merrill seemed even more confused. "Why should we make fun of your name? It's a pretty name."

"Exactly. Pretty. Weak. Marian isn't a name for someone like me, for a world like this. A Marian isn't someone who kills. But a Hawke is."


End file.
